Pals Before Gals…
by Terrence Orson
Summary: We all have choices to make, but how do they affect our mind when we're outside freezing our rear ends? Converted from the short story on FictionPress.


I must say I'm rather disappointed in so many of you. Not for sticking up for a friend and fellow FanFiction author; it's because of the fact that many of you misunderstood Jamie Skyland's poll, which only expressed opinions. Plus, some said that we should only post up stories because they were mad at the critic stories, but ironically, they said that by posting non-story opinions themselves. Hypocrisy, anyone? What was worse was that most lacked even the basic understanding of grammar, which pervaded the entire "rants." I'm not calling anyone out, but you know who you are, and so do I.

My opinion is that some authors here don't seem ready to be authors here. For one thing, I'm noticing some new users that make pervasive grammar errors and say that they don't have time to edit them out. If that's so, then you probably don't have time to be writing fanfiction. Proofread as carefully as possible so you don't annoy your readers with lack of effort. Set your standards a lot higher.

Another thing, even before this "drama bomb" started, some users acted like they were entitled to positive reviews. No, you're not. If you get a negative review, sure, you might feel bad, but you've got to accept it. It's just a reminder that improvement is needed in the future. It's nothing about which to get butt-hurt, but I guess some of you don't see it that way. You want "all good or nothing." (words of AnterB)

Well, now that that's said and done, it's time for the story.

* * *

Pals Before Gals…

By

Terrence Orson

Converted from the short story of the same name on FictionPress

I had been talking on the phone with my best friend since eighth grade, Tobias, and he told me he'd won tickets for next Saturday's Celtics vs. Globetrotters basketball game in yesterday's school raffle. He could invite one friend to go with him, and he had picked me.

He and I loved basketball, and we wanted to go pro one day. What did that mean? We were trying to get to Carnegie Hall—practice, practice, practice. As much as possible, usually when it was warm out, we would go shoot hoops in his driveway or at the court in our local park. We were on the basketball team at our school, Elmore High, but we were the kind of guys that liked a little extra practice.

_Awesome!_ I thought, my lip curling into a smile. This was our chance to go see the pros up close, to get a closer look. Sooner or later, we'd be just like them, out on the court doing what we loved. Of course, then it wouldn't be work. After all, it's not work when you love what you do.

My mood went up from the call as I worked on some homework for my English II class. I had this small essay, a review, to write of a book I was reading. I had chosen Stephen King's _Misery_. Even though I was still reading it, I thought it was terrifying. What made it worse was that my name was Paul. I actually put myself in his place as I read, and it really made me experience the terror within.

If I couldn't make it to the NBA, I'd have writing to fall back on. Writing was one of my favorite pastimes. Many kids would be inside, especially because it was below freezing outside at this point in the year, and they would be watching cartoons, movies, and such for much of the day, but I chose instead to practice my use of the pen. I usually got good grades in school, but English, where we had to write short fiction stories every few weeks, was my best class, besides P.E., as well as my favorite. I had a 97%. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Suddenly, I heard the mail truck coming through my neighborhood. I got up from my book, put on my gray hoodie and blue polar fleece coat over my white thermal long-sleeved shirt, along with a pair of socks, walked downstairs to the front door to put on my shoes, and went to the mailbox. I was soon blasted with the cold as I stepped outside. You know, on second thought, it happened once I opened the door.

_Crap!_ I forgot my gloves in my drawer, and in this kind of weather (it was seriously 5ºF with a wind chill factor of -2ºF, and snow covered the lawn with more piling up right now), that was a big mistake. Of course, since I was getting the mail, and I usually checked to see who in the house got what (sue me for being a snoop), gloves might impede my grip, so it really didn't matter. I stuck my hands in my pockets, somewhat shielding my hands from the cold air, and walked to the mailbox. I looked inside and saw that there was only one thing. I checked to see whom it was for. Me. Hmm.

Doing my best to ignore the cold, I opened the envelope and looked at the green card with purple lining.

"You're invited!" it said in big, purple letters. I opened the card and looked to see that Marilyn, another one of my friends, was having a sweet sixteen party at the skating rink, and the invitees needed to RSVP to her mother's email address.

Nice! My best girl friend was inviting me to her birthday party. No, she wasn't my girlfriend, and she never would be. She was my best girl friend. Am I making sense?

I checked the date of the party next. February 15. Next Saturday. Damn it! Two things to do, but I could only choose one—game or party.

Marilyn and I knew each other from middle school. We had the same lunch period and Honors English class in eighth grade. We made the most of our time together and became fast friends, and each day, our relationship steadily grew. Halfway through freshman year, it was obvious to ourselves, and others, that we liked each other, but unlike a lot of our peers, we didn't date. We wanted to, but we didn't, thinking that it might get in the way of the friendships we'd each made in our lives, and one I didn't want to jeopardize was my friendship with Tobias.

As I said before, he and I were friends since eighth grade. I had moved to Elmore from Trenton the summer before, and I met him at the park while he was shooting hoops. I saw that he sucked at basketball, so I made it my duty to shape him up over the summer. It wasn't all that easy because he was short and a bit scrawny. I guess he was just a late bloomer. Yep. That was it. He started getting taller in August, and it looked like it was really helping his game. He started making more of his shots, and by the start of basketball season in school, he was one of the top players, exceeding everyone's expectations.

He went on to play in high school, and he thanked me at one point for offering my time to him to help him get better those few years ago. To me, it was no big deal. I just liked lending a helping hand when I could, as long as I wasn't being used. I hated those kind of people.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something white blowing in the wind. It looked like a piece of paper. I'm ashamed to say it, but my curiosity took over, and I went toward it. I had to chase it into my backyard because the wind was blowing so hard, and it always evaded my grasp, but after about a minute that seemed to last forever, I finally caught up to it. I gripped it tightly in my hand, and it made that flapping sound that paper normally makes when being handled.

I put the card under my armpit and opened up the paper, but I was perplexed to see what was on it—nothing. It was totally blank. I turned it over and checked the other side. Nothing. What the heck? I had just chased a blank piece of paper. What was that about?

I threw my arms down in frustration and sighed. I seriously could not believe I had just chased a blank piece of paper. What purpose did it serve? I looked back down at it, but I was shocked to find out that my hand was empty. No sign of the paper. I hadn't even felt it escape my fingers.

_Fingers_. That cold must have really gotten to me fast because my fingers felt stiff as a board. In fact, I figured I had probably been hallucinating that there was a piece of paper worth chasing in the first place. Yeah, maybe that was it. I ran back inside, holding the card in my hand, and stared at it while leaning against the closed front door.

Being inside, I was able to think more clearly. I recalled what I had just done outside, thinking about why it'd had happened and trying to find some meaning to it, and soon, it reminded me of a book I had read back in ninth grade. Oh, crap. I realized what my delusional mind was telling me: I had a serious choice to make with my plans for next Saturday. I sighed and went upstairs to take off my coats. I set down the card, picked up my phone, and called Tobias back.

"Hey, Tobias," I said once the dial tone ended.

"Hey. What's up, Paul?" he asked.

"Well, you know how next Saturday is Marilyn's birthday, right?"

"Uh, yeah. I just got an invitation to her party in the mail." Pause. I bet he was thinking about the same thing. "Uh…"

"What is it?" I asked.

"Well…" I could tell he was nervous, "how would you feel if I said I'd rather go to the party over the basketball game?"

I went wide-eyed. I didn't expect this. "Dude," I said with a serious tone.

"Yeah?"

I grinned. "You are awesome."

"Pffft," he scoffed like it was no surprise to him, like he was full of himself. I'd heard that he was a lot more so before I came along, so I figured some of it was sneaking through. "Of course you're going, too. Being her boy friend and all."

"Shut up!" I said, blushing and smiling sheepishly. He chuckled.

"Relax. I'm kidding. Don't get so salty."

"Ha-ha, ok. See you later, bud."

"Bye. Oh, wait!" I froze.

"You've heard that phrase 'pals before gals' before, right?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, that's a bunch of bull crap. Ok. See ya," he said before hanging up.

I put down my phone and was about to go downstairs to make some hot cocoa when my dad called me. I came into the bedroom, where he asked me, "What were you doing outside for so long?"

"Ah, nothing," I said. "Just reading the mail."

He pursed his lips, deciding whether to believe me or not. I got nervous. I didn't want to tell him about the imaginary paper I chased in the backyard. Then again, it was true that I had been reading the mail, so maybe I was anxious for nothing.

"Okay," he finally said. "Get back to your book."

"May I have hot cocoa first?"

"Sure." He returned his focus to the shirt he was ironing. I left the room and went downstairs into the kitchen. I then washed my hands and made hot cocoa.

I spent the first few minutes after taking it from the microwave with my hands wrapped around the mug. I had to remove them every few seconds because it really _was_ hot cocoa. When it was cool enough, I gulped the whole thing down. It left a brown mustache on my upper lip. Kind of sloppy, and dirty when you think about it, but what's done is done. I went back to my bedroom and returned to my book, feeling a little excitement and joy for next weekend. I couldn't wait.

THE END

The original version of this started as a class assignment for which I received a 100% and a positive reaction from my classmates, though in all honesty, I personally find it stupid. Now, you evaluate it and form your own opinion.


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